The Werewolf Order (Erotica)

She nods slowly, “We need to talk afterwards.”

“I know,” he says, “I have much to tell you, as I am sure you have much to tell me. But all of that will have to wait until later tonight, Queen Namora.”

Mora draws in a deep breath and lets it out; wiping the last of her tears from her face, she dons a blank expression, securely hidden behind her royal mask. Glancing to Jackson, she nods. The men open the doors to the castle before four of them pick up the casket and carry it carefully down the stairs. Slowly, Mora follows.

The entire town below is filled with men, women and children dressed in blue, a sea of people come to see their King off. The sight of it causes Mora to draw in a sharp breath; she waits by the doors for Laren, while watching her father be set down at the base of the stairs on top of a wooden alter.

Laren’s usually quiet voice projects easily over the crowd from above them, “People of Derven-we have gathered here, to say farewell to our beloved King Nathanial. None of us were expecting to do this so soon and I know that we all share in the pain of loss. Let us recall the kindness, the selflessness, the graciousness in which he served our country. He was a benevolent King and we could have not hoped for anyone more worthy. He was tested many times and proved to be a steadfast man and I think we can all agree that he always did what was best for Derven, even if, in the end, it cost him his life.

I am thankful that I had the privilege of calling him a friend and that he shared with me the experience of raising his daughter. I know he touched many of your lives in a very personal way-he was always the first to offer help no matter the need. Tonight he will be reunited with his love, his wife, our beloved Queen Jemisha, in the great forest beyond. If you wish to offer him farewell for his journey, you are welcome to do so.”

Laren bows his head in a moment of silence, before offering his arm to Mora; she takes it and they descend, stopping when they reach the third from the bottom step behind the alter. The position offers them a view of the entire square, as well as Nathanial’s body and the line that forms of Dervens who wish to say goodbye.

Some speak soft words, others none at all; several shed tears, both men and women alike. Young children come with their parents to see their old King off, the youth placing small clusters of flowers inside his casket as is customary. Mora and Laren stand in silence for hours as the line dwindles down to the last few remaining. When all those in blue have passed, the only people left in the entire square are the soldiers who have already said their peace waiting to take the casket to the tombs and one man dressed in all black.NôvelDrama.Org holds text © rights.

Rick stands before the coffin, looking down at the dead King. His voice is soft, the agony in it present, “I wish we could have met under different circumstances.”

Mora knows the words are meant for her and it tears at her heart, but tucked within the safety of her stoic affect, she doesn’t show a hint of a response. Rick turns and leaves, the square now empty.

Her and Laren follow the four soldiers as they carry the casket back into the castle. The procession makes the long walk through the winding halls towards the back of the castle, coming to the dusty wooden stairs that lead down into the royal tombs. Torches blaze brightly in the cool, dry stone part of the castle. Walking almost the entire length of it, past the boxes containing her line of ancestors and to the rulers of even further back, they finally arrive at an empty opening in the stone walls. The soldiers carefully place the lid onto the casket, the perfectly carved wood sealing air tight, before they lift it and slide it into his final resting place. With a bow, they leave.

Laren stands slightly behind Mora, his voice quiet, “I will wait for you in the royal ante chamber, Queen Namora.”

She barely nods her acknowledgement, hearing his footsteps disappear, her eyes still locked on her father’s casket. Tentatively reaching her hand out, she traces the blue inlay on the side, the curves that form his name, the dates of his life and death. “Goodbye, father,” her voice is a whisper.

As her eyes fall on the shelf below, a sigh escapes her lips seeing her mother’s name inlaid in red against the black wooden coffin. Her fingers trace the letters, the name so foreign on her lips as she says them, “Jemisha.” Drawing in a breath, she turns to leave when something catches her eye-the carving on the side of her mother’s coffin. It is one she has seen many times before, when her and her father would wander down to the tomb on her mother’s birthday; now, however, the carving holds meaning. Her hand trembles when she reaches out, fingers touching the cold dark wood, running over the impression of a tree. Below the tree rests several brush tigers, laying down. When her fingers trace the arch encompassing the tree, a chill creeps up her spine as she is reminded of the tapestry she saw hanging over Rick’s fireplace-the one depicting a tree that lives in the total darkness of a cave, that grows with the sacrifice of humans.

…

Laren sits on the soft sofa in the antechamber, a large platter of food resting on a cushion. He looks up at Mora when she enters, “Since we missed dinner, I thought we could share.”

She walks swiftly over, sitting on the other side of the platter, “Who designs the caskets?”

His hand halts on the way to his mouth, forkful of roast hovering in the air, shocked by the question, “The occupant of the casket. Once the ascension to the throne is made, the designs are usually sketched within the first few weeks of the new reign. I should have been here to tell you this, but it didn’t seem like a pressing matter-I hope you aren’t planning on doing something that would result in you needing one so soon, Queen Namora.”

“So no one other than the occupant knows the meanings of the design?”

“No,” he says, “though I believe your father told me once that the pattern reminded him of seeing the moon through the canopy of the forest.”

“And my mother?”

The roast makes it to his mouth and Laren chews carefully before responding, “She never explicitly said anything about it but I assumed it was reminiscent of her time as Head Huntress and living in the woods of Sceadu.”

Slumping slightly, she spears a cooked carrot and chews on it, “Did she ever tell you anything about her life before?”

He shakes his head, “I know nothing more about her previous life than you. If she did tell anyone, it would have been your father.”

Sighing she picks up a sliced of buttered bread and bites down on it; Laren’s posture deflates a little, “Oh, Namora.” His voice is soft and pained, “What happened?”

She does not wish to talk about it with anyone, least of all her mentor, but the words come out none the less, “He tried to attack Irving. He is quick to anger, stubborn, impulsive and violent. He would never be worthy of Derven.”

The sound of Laren’s tongue clicking against his teeth draws her gaze; he frowns, chastising her, “It isn’t his fault he wasn’t raised as you were. I am disappointed that you would give up on him so easily-the stubborn, Derven woman that I know would never rest until she set him right. You believe you can teach Irving to be a King in a week-why would you think that Varickan couldn’t learn to do the same?”

She snorts a huff, “I’m not even entirely sure I can trust him-or anyone for that matter. Sheynne wants the Alumenian throne and if Rick had his way, he’d do nothing to stop her.”

“Trust has to be earned, Namora. That can hardly be accomplished if you won’t give him the time of day.”

Silently, she finishes the slice of bread. Laren is right-she would never forgive herself if she just walked away from her chance at true love. It is possible that Rick could be brought to see reason but she is doubtful that she will have the time to deal with him unless he can come to terms with her grooming Irving. “What have you discovered of Alumenia?”